


Prompt: "Friend of the family"

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 22:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I AM HELLA PROUD OF MYSELF FOR THIS OKAY<br/>still badfic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Prompt: "Friend of the family"

**Author's Note:**

> I AM HELLA PROUD OF MYSELF FOR THIS OKAY  
> still badfic.

You had never gotten along well with your parents and your first girlfriend didn't make it any better. She was everything, literally everything, they disapproved and you loved. But your parents were willing to take drastic measures to pull you away from her glowing pink hair and the spikey piercing on her lower lip you loved to bite, to make you not see that Allen Ginsberg tattoo and trace it with your finger ever again.  
So you reluctantly moved. You had had a perfect goodbye before putting an ocean between you. Your parents couldn't have chosen a worse place. Fucking Boston.  
"We're going to meet back with an old friend's family!", they had said. "Aren't you excited?"  
No, mom. I'm not.  
I remember him, vaguely, from the two or three times he had visited you back at home. He was... average. He had long blonde hair and wore zip-up jackets. He kind of had a tiny almost unnoticeable unibrow you used to laugh at.  
You aren't excited to see him. At all. So you set off for his house, the second day in Boston, at about 9 AM. Your father drives for about fifteen minutes until he pulls off on a driveway next to a huge house painted light green. You slump out of the car and fiddle with your own lower-lip piercing. It's not spikey. You miss the feeling.  
Your mom rings the doorbell and forces you to straighten your back and neaten your hair. Let go of that piercing and make your hair not look like a junkie's, she says. You don't really give a damn.  
The door opens.  
You didn't remember him like that.  
Where the fuck is the unibrow? And what happened to the ugly jackets?  
You did not remember a god, dammit.  
He kisses you on the cheek. You blush. Goosebumps. Shit goddamn fuck.  
He leads you all to the living room where the table is laid for breakfast. Holy fuck, you forgot how early it was. Too early for this shit. The grunt that involuntarily comes out of your mouth is not out of sleepiness.  
Your parents talk to him. You can do nothing but stare. He has still the long blonde hair, but he's styled it. He doesn't look like an ugly drunk leprechaun anymore. The hair is straight and tucked behind his ears. It looks like he had combed it back with extreme care. There's a perfect balance between his natural dark blonde and the slightly lighter blonde streaks produced by the sun.  
The windows are open, the sunlight comes in through the window like every morning. Except you're asleep every morning. But today you're thankful you're up and here and you thank your parents for forcing you to come near his eyes the color of the sea in the best Miami beaches.  
He's now talking to your parents about his job. He is an acrobat in one of Boston's best circuses, he says. It cost him a lot to find a job he loved so much. Apparently he was an amateur movie director before.  
He gets up to find one of his videos, one of the latest presentations of his circus. You admire his -quite perfect, frankly- figure. An acrobat's build. He lacks butt, though.  
He zips off his jacket -the sun is hitting more strongly in the glass windowed room at about eleven PM. When did two hours pass?- to reveal a tight v-neck white t-shirt. His arms. Yes, he's definitely an acrobat.  
He comes back and puts the CD onto the reader, and it starts to play immediately. He's hanging from a white cloth, wearing OH MY GOD IS HE WEARING ONLY WHITE TIGHTS OH MY GOD your face is now as red as your t-shirt. His movements are perfect, coordinated, to the beat of the cello music. You can't hold your blushing in anymore.  
Your father says you have to leave. No. No no no no no.  
"Maybe she wants to stay and help me organize my music? I've just moved here and I heard she's musical..."  
Oh, words spoken from heaven. You agree. Your parents agree. You say goodbye. They leave.  
What now?  
You stay in silence, and in that way he leads you upstairs to a mirrored, wooden floored studio. There's no CDs in there, whatsoever.  
Oh.  
He looks at you and says not even a word. He grabs you by the red t-shirt and pushes you against one of the mirrored corners, where there's no handrail. He presses against you, his lips on yours hot and violent, eager. He apparently didn't expect you to have grown, either. You might as well get carried along.  
You slip your shaking hands under his t-shirt. The whole of his skin is /hot/. His lips move away from yours only to kiss down your neck and stop at your prominent collarbone, not covered by your shirt, and bite down.  
You scream. Was that a mistake or the best thing you could have ever done?  
It triggers something. He looks up at you, his eyes not cerulean and lovely anymore but the deepest darkest blue one can picture human eyes to be, and wild and lusty. He bites down again and pushes the collar of your t-shirt as far down as it will go, just to the edge of your bra. Fuck.  
He bites down a trail from your neck, to your shoulder, to your collarbone, to your chest. You're letting him do all the work. You push his shirt up and he lets loose enough for you to take it off over his head, and trace a finger up his spine while doing so. His back arching is a sing that, apparently, you did it right. His hand holds on to the edge of your jeans and pushes down in the most subtle way, and you start on him, doing the exact same he did to you, continuing on his bicep and pectorals. Damn, he's hot. Temperature hot.  
His hair is starting to get sweaty, you feel as you run your hand through it. You pull on it as he pushes up your shirt and kisses your stomach. How far is he actually willing to go?  
You're still propped up against the corner, or else you wouldn't be able to stand. You start seeing red bite marks on the places he bit you and you bit him. You don't think about how you're going to hide them.  
In fact, you don't think about anything when he pushes your shirt up and kicks your jeans off.


End file.
